


What the World Calls Romance

by deardracula



Category: The Beatles
Genre: 1950s, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-01-08 10:31:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1131586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deardracula/pseuds/deardracula
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a faint question wiggling around in his head that made him wonder if meeting someone two weeks prior to them knocking on your window in the middle of the night was something John thought happened regularly in other people's lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> title courtesy of Oscar Wilde.

Paul jerked awake with the faint wrap of knuckles on his window. His heart stuttered in his chest as his vision settled and solidified in the dark. He turned his head slowly, weary of the sight on the other side of the brick wall separating him from the bleak English night. “Shit,” he sighed heavily when his eyes found the pale face of John Lennon, swollen and distorted through old lead glass.  
  
“Let me in, Paulie” he sang from the other side as Paul pushed back his covers with stubborn force and shoved the window pane up with the earsplitting wail of wood against heat-bloated wood. There was a faint question wiggling around in his head that made him wonder if meeting someone two weeks prior to them knocking on your window in the middle of the night was something John thought happened regularly in other people's lives. He talked to him at church at the end of those two weeks, just a passing hello and the brief but heated discussion on whither or not Buddy Holly would be around if it wasn't for Elvis. He remembered playing guitar for him on a cheap instrument he had hand strung upside down and backwards, receiving less then reputable comments on his interpretation of Little Richard.  
  
“You scared me,” Paul hissed as he helped John pull himself into his bedroom. “God, you reek of booze. What are you doing here?” Paul sat back on his bed as he scrubbed a hand over his tired face and watched John slick a comb through his disheveled hair.  
  
“Just in the neighborhood, thought I'd pop in.”  
  
“Alright, just keep it down. My dad already thinks you're bad news.”  
  
“Maybe he's right,” John sat down next to him, the earthy heat of cigarettes settled deep and foreboding in his homely leather jacket. “Do you think I'm bad news?”  
  
“No,” he said after a moment, “I just think your daft.”  
  
“Daft," he hummed, "I can live with daft,” he laid back against the head board of the thin mattress, pressing Paul into the wall until his light blue pajama bottoms melted away into the paint under the glowing moon light spilling in through the open window. "Settle in, McCartney. I don't plan in going anywhere for a while," he yawned, stretching his arms up behind his head, leather cracking under the strain.

So Paul laid back until they were pressed tightly from shoulder to toe. The house was silent, the erratic snores echoing from his father's room down the hall fainter than they had ever been under the weight of John's drunken breathing beside him.“Do you think we'll be a good pair?” John asked through a thick haze of half-sleep.

 

Paul blinked slowly, the fingers he had laced over his stomach rising and falling with the inflation of his lungs. “I think we'll be alright.”

 

He woke up in the morning with an empty bed and an open window.

 

It wasn't until a few days later did Paul really noticed the way John looked at him and looked at him and _looked_ at him. All the time. When he thought no one was watching or when he didn't care what other people might think. Paul could feel it on his skin, pulling it tight and rubbing it raw. He didn't know what to think of it, didn't know John well enough maybe, or didn't want to dive deeper into it because 'ignorance was bliss' or some other shit.

John was reckless and hot headed and Paul certainly didn't see him enough to be certain of his self-diagnosed, narcissistic implications. But it was a little past noon on a Sunday – the month indistinguishable by the bleak English sky – and Paul had taken the long way home from church, walking alone after George skipped out early to go help his father in his store. There was a grave yard somewhere off the beaten path, somewhere that would remain undisturbed on days like that one where the rain was hard enough to beat Paul's hair flat against his head. He didn't know why he stopped. It was obvious enough by the form writhing against a wilting tombstone that whoever was there behind those shin-high iron gates wanted nothing to do with him or his pubescent curiosities. But his feet stopped and his eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat. It was John and his girl. There. Just _there_ out in public, fucking over a buried corpse.

He waited so long, for what, he didn't know but he was there for an eternity. Long enough for John to look up. Look up and see him standing there and _watching_ like a perverted little child.

He ran, hard and fast across rolling hills and mud slick grass, not blinking twice when he was scolded for soiling his good Sunday trousers. 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Paul could never chance a smoke on the weekend. His father was always in the house and Mike was always lurking somewhere close by. It made his head ache and his hands shake and his temper short. But when Sunday rolled around, he knew George would be good for a smoke, always was.

Early in the morning, the other boy knocked on his door to walk with him to church ahead of his other family members. He held a fag out to Paul before he had time to ask, striking a match against his box and lighting it as it dangled between Paul’s teeth. He sighed a thanks, smoke rolling off his lips in thick blue clouds.

 

* * *

 

Church always dragged on and on and on and _on_ , almost for forever. When the end rolled around, Paul’s chest always tightened with the anticipation of being able to leave, so when the preacher that was up at a stand miles ahead of him asked them to bow their heads and pray, Paul was happy to oblige. In the silence, someone across the room cleared their throat and a baby cried and Paul knew he should be repenting for something, but all he could see behind his closed lids was John Lennon, a week younger than the one walking around that day, bouncing a girl on his lap as he sat across a tombstone.

When the crowds around him started to mummer their way into a dull roar, Paul picked up his head, opening his eyes slowing before standing up beside George and fishing a comb out of his pocket, running it through his hair in a desperate attempt to slick it back against the way it fell flat against his head for church.

He had bad luck that much was clear. The universe must have been trying to punish him for something he didn’t know he’d done. When he caught sight of John sitting on the kerb at the front of the church surround by his friends, the three of them drawing on the pavement with rocks, all leather and motor oil slick hair amongst the hems of floral skirts, he wanted to run, slip through the crowd and leave George to fend for himself. It was a slight marvel how John was always there when he looked. Always everywhere and nowhere all at once.

Before he had time to make his escape, his eyes met John’s and deeply intense hazel locked him in place and pulled him forward before he had time to argue. He waited from the mocking song of ‘Paulie’, or the factitious jab of ‘Teddy Boy’, or the low hiss of ‘pervert’ that he was dreading so much, but all he got was an “oy,” as John stood up and fixed his hair as his friends followed in suit.

“Hey,” Paul said, stepping back a half step and bumping into George who was standing too closely behind him.

“What’re you lads up to on this lovely day?” John asked after his friends told him they had to run and ducked into the sea of people crowded around the church doors.

They were silent for a beat too long before George thought to speak up. “Off to the shore with my dad,” he nodded to himself, “do a little fishing.” Just as he said it, a car horn blared some ways down the block. They all turned to look at the little man behind the wheel of a Ford Angela, greying at the temples, smiling and waving to his son who said farewell to Paul and John before turning and leaving them alone.

“Looks like that just leaves the two of us.”

 

* * *

 

They ending up trekking back down to Paul’s house, not many words shared between them. Paul kept his mind set on his guitar, the one they were going to go retrieve because as they both knew, music was the best filler for conversation. As they rounded onto Paul’s street, he asked John to wait at the corner so he could slip in easily and undetected.

He jogged most of the way home, sneaking around to his bedroom window and prying it open with a loud squeal. He cringed, pausing for a moment to listen for footsteps before climbing in when all was quiet. Inside, he shucked off his horribly itchy wool sport coat, throwing it onto the bed and almost screaming when he turned and saw his brother perched there beside where his jacket had landed, a devilish smile pulled across his face.

 In the end, he had to pay Mike off to keep his mouth shut.

After he had run off with all the money Paul kept in a jar on his dresser, he grabbed his guitar and climbed back out the window as quietly as he could.

John was still standing where he had left him, looking like something out of a movie with his leg propped up against a brink wall like it was, a fag between his teeth. “I've got it,” Paul announced, holding his guitar up by the neck.

 

“Right,” John nodded, pushing himself off the wall and striding down the road.

 

* * *

 

Somewhere at the end of town, there was an old house sitting on acres and acres of empty land. Years ago its owners had given up on it and left it to rot down to the skeletal form John and Paul knew it as that afternoon. There were fallen 'do not enter' signs littered across the ground and John stepped over them, unconcerned as he found a break in the chain link fence big enough for them to squeeze through.

 John stepped through first, pulling the fence back enough to make room for Paul and his guitar.

He didn't ask where he was being lead as he followed John past the house and down towards the sharp slope of a hill that spilled down into thick forest at its base. “I saw you, you know,” John hummed, slowing his pace to match Paul's before taking the guitar out of his hand and securing it over his chest, his callused fingers struggling to find their place on the backwards strings.

 

“So what,” Paul snapped against his constricting throat as his heart dropped. "It wasn't like you were hiding."

 

“Just noticed you stood there for an awful long time,” he sung over his shoulder, jogging down the hill, the instrument against his chest thumping dully. “It's almost like – nah, it couldn't be, could it? Tell me I'm crazy.” He flashed him a wicked smile as he ducked under a low hanging branch, wrapping an arm around the tree's young trunk loosely.

 

“Like I'm what,” Paul demanded, trying to keep his face somber as his heart kicked violently in his chest.

 

“Almost like you were jealous.”

 

Paul gaped at him for a long time, his wide eyes following John's retreating back. “Fucking mad, you are!” he managed, swallowing the crack that threatened to break his voice.

He ran to catch up, always running towards him it seemed as his heart beat faster, coming up to sit on his tongue and drown out his hearing. “No, no I think I’ve hit it right on the head, son,” John laughed, stopping dead in his tracks. “I think you've got a little crush on me.”

The moment Paul decided to attack him, he knew he would be bested. John was older, bigger, with a history of alley tussles and bar fights. Within minutes, was was flat on his back, John sitting on his hips, pinning him to the ground as a bruise came up and swirled along his jaw. “Come on McCartney, tell me you fancy me, you little queer.”

Paul growled through gritted teeth, tugging and pulling against the fleshy shackles of John's hands around his wrists. “Get off me you fucking bruit,” he snarled, thrashing against the dead weight above him as something in his chest shriveled away to almost nothing.

 

“Not until you say it,” he leaned in close, his eyes mocking and malicious. Paul turned his head away, clenching his eyes shut as tight as he could manage. “Well look at that. Looks like that blush says it all.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

Paul wasn't queer, no way was he queer. He use to spend hours drawing up pictures of naked ladies for his classmate's amusement back in primary school. No, he wasn't queer, he was just letting John's wicked sneers and hurtful jabs get the best of him.

            And it was working. Despite Paul's indifferent attitude towards whatever it was that had happened in the woods, he was over thinking everything: how long he looked at another bloke, who he thought about when he wanked, making sure not to think about John to the point where trying not thinking about John was the only thing he was doing…

            George was over at his house and they were sitting in the living room, George in Paul's dad's favourite chair and Paul at the piano, his fingers skimming over the keys without his mind having to tell them where to go. They were trying to bash out something George had written a few weeks ago, trying to work out the kinks with the piano as best they could before they played it in front of anyone for the first time.

            It took George calling his name a few times before Paul shook himself from his self-induced trance. His fingers had stilled over the ivory keys, hovering there, waiting for his mind to catch up and tell them what to do. “Sorry,” he said, ignoring the way George was looking up at him through his eyebrows.

 

“Do you want to take a break?”

 

“No, no. I'm alright,” he kept playing over the conversation.

 

            There was a knock at the door a few moments later and Paul visibly jumped. George gave him a pointed look as he stood up to answer the door. As he turned the knob John burst into the room, filling it was the heavy smell of cigarettes and cheap beer. “What is this, a knitting circle?” John looked down his long nose at George, who curled himself around the instrument in his lap subconsciously.

 

“What do you want?” Paul snapped, the venom in his voice making him sound alien and unfamiliar to his own ears.

 

“Wanted to return this,” John held Paul's guitar up by the neck, not seeming to think twice about his tone. “You were in such a rush to leave the last time I saw you,” he gave him a wiry smile, making Paul shift uncomfortably.

 

            There he was, barefooted and red faced with John standing in front of him, his heavy boots on his feet adding enough height for him to stand over Paul. “Mind if I stay and have a listen?” John didn’t wait for an answer as he sat down on the armrest of the chair George was sitting in, and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Oh,” Paul started, plucking at the strings on his guitar and letting the dull sound ring out pathetically. “We actually just wrapped up.” He glanced at George and watched his eyebrows knit.

“Okay,” George said after a moment, standing up gingerly and gently tugging at the sleeve of his leather jacket that was trapped under John’s thigh. “Well, see ya, I guess,” his mouth curled up at the side when he got his jacket. He hesitated at the door for a moment before slipping outside and Paul wished he’d stayed because he needed George’s soft, quite air to hang around to balance out the cheeky bastard that just came through his door.

“He sure does that a lot,” John snickered.

“What?” Paul said through his teeth, closing the lid of the piano just to give himself something to do.

“Just leaves us poor kids to fend for ourselves.”

            Paul’s dad chose that moment to come back in the room, “George left?” he asked, looking John over out of the corner of his eye. Paul nodded, running a hand through his fallen hair. “Well, I’m going to bed, so you two keep it down.”

            They fell into silence as they listened to the shuffle of socked feet followed by the click of a bedroom door closing. “Let’s go somewhere.” John suggested after the house stilled. He stood up suddenly and stepped towards Paul who was still hovering by the piano.

“Like where?” Paul’s voice softened as he slid his hand over the slick black paint of the piano.

“You should learn to live in the moment.” John went and picked up a pair of shoes that were sitting by the door and handed them to Paul. Even though they were his dad’s, he took them anyway and slid them on even though he knew they would probably give him blisters and his dad would fuss if he got them covered in mud or anything like that. “Right on, mate,” John slapped him on the back when he was bent over, trying to force the shoes on his feet without having to untie them, and he nearly fell flat on his face.

            When they stepped outside, John turned up the collar of his jacket and stuffed his hands in his pockets, not waiting for Paul to finish locking the door before he started down the street.

            Paul couldn’t help but think of the last time he let John leading him somewhere blindly, but he could tell John was in a different mood today. Paul didn’t know enough about him to know exactly what to expect out of the current, slightly frightening glimmer in his eye, but he’d seen worse out of the older boy.

            He jogged to catch up to him, regretfully stumbling over an uneven patch of pavement while John strode on coolly. “Hey,” he started and not really knowing what he was going to say, only that he wanted to fill the air before the tension that seemed to form so easily between them started to stir. “So I was wondering if you had an extra place in the band.” The moment he said it he wanted to take it back.

            When he barked out a laugh, it definitely stung. Paul thought he knew what John was going to say before he said it and he almost told him not to bother, but what came out of his mouth was more than Paul was braced for. “Fat chance, son. Don’t need a baby face like yours mucking up our image.”

Paul had a comeback, he really did, but his chest was tight and his throat was closing and the heat building in his face was very distracting. He was a damn good musician and he knew it, and he knew for a fact that John could play seven chords, at best. “But I,” Paul’s voice cracked childishly.

“But you… but you…” John mimicked ruthlessly, his voice high and his shoulders bunched up around his ears. It took Paul a few more paces before he realized that John had stopped somewhere behind him under a cone of light cast from a streetlamp hanging over his head, shadows catching in the deep angles of his face. “I didn’t invite you out to listen to you beg. It’s my band, alright? Drop it. I know you’re going to get all bent out of shape, but just drop it.” He breathed heavily and Paul figured he was trying to calm himself down.

            Paul wanted to argue, wanted to defend himself and prove to John that he wasn't some kid he could push around, but he could tell want kind of mood he was in and decided to bite his tongue. He'd prove that he was worth John's time, sooner or later.

They kept walking, Paul's footfalls a beat behind John's as he let himself be led to some wicked place that he figured John had in mind. He was trying not to ask questions as they walked through the empty streets, weaving through alleys like rats.

Behind some bar, John jumped up and hung onto the ladder hanging off a fire escape, swinging in the air as he tried to force the rusted metal to give and drop the ladder down. After a few moments of Paul watching him frantically swing and jerk, he cursed and pulled himself up onto the platform, pushing his hair back off him forehead. "Come on," he urged Paul with a wave of his hand. Paul sighed heavily before raising his arms in the air, positioning himself before jumping and letting his hands wrap themselves around the bottom rung of the ladder. With a little more of a struggle than he'd ever admit to the older boy, he hooked his elbow over the platform by John's feet and forced the rest of his body onto the slab of metal with him. John didn't wait to see if he made it before the started to climb the rest of the way to the roof. Paul's hair was flopping down into his eyes and he knew his pants were painted with bright red flakes of rust, but he followed him up to the flat roof carpeted with gravel and littered with empty whiskey bottles. John laughed at his state before sitting on some square metal contraption that was fastened to the roof.

John patted the empty spot beside him, the metal ringing dully. Paul sat down, running a comb through his hair and keeping his knees together so his leg didn’t brush against John’s. Paul was still a little sore about being shot down when he asked about joining John’s band, but he was trying not to let it show on his face. John seemed to have forgotten the tension as he propped his arms behind him and tilted his chin up towards the sky, his eyes skimming over the sea of stars above them.

“Want to get slouched?” John smirked at him, pulling s bottle of some amber liquid out from the inner pocket of his jacket. He unscrewed the cap and pressed the lip of the bottom against his mouth. He swallowed the mouthful easily before handing it to Paul, who tried to do the same but couldn’t help but grimace.

            Paul couldn’t hold his alcohol like John could, and he figured John was counting on that, for reasons he couldn’t really explain. So as they passed the bottle back and forth between them and Paul tried to take one mouthful for every two John did. “So you like me huh? Got a little schoolgirl crush?” John smiled at him dumbly, leaning forward in a drunken sway, his cheeks flushed and the tip of his nose red.

“Where’re you getting that from,” Paul snatched the bottle out of his hand and threw it back, scrunching his face up as he swallowed.

“I can sense these things, Paulie,” he patted his cheek rather roughly. “And you know what? Maybe if you were a girl things would be different. Yeah I’d definitely shag you if you were a bird.”

“And who says I’d want to shag you,” he hissed, trying to fight a blush that was pushing through to color his cheeks.

“Oh come on,” John leaned close with one eyebrow raised. “If you were a girl, and I asked you to kiss me right now, are you really telling me you wouldn’t?”

Paul was quiet for a beat too long and with John swaying like he was, the distance between they was closing and Paul could feel his mouth going slack. John’s chest was heaving as Paul watched his eyes flick to his mouth. His eyes fell shut as he leaned in and closed the space between them, his hands securing themselves on Paul shoulders. Paul heard a little mew echo through his chest as his fingers trailed up and locked under the sharp angle of John’s jaw.

John’s mouth was soft and wet against his, and the stubble on his face felt so foreign as Paul’s fingers skimmed along his face. He loved how John was pulling him close though, loved how strong his hands felt at the base of his neck, so he let John hook a knee over his and he let his hands fall to his hips and push themselves under the hem of his shirt.


End file.
